The Memory of Forgotten Things
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: Cassandra looks back on her past lives--and the lessons learned from them.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

I sit on the rooftop, watching as the mists seep through the winding streets below. They are the mists of Time and Chance—they are shadows of a forgotten time, memories of a distant past. They are places and people and things that no longer exist, and yet I see them. I see all—as it was, as it is, as it shall be.

Bombalurina walks up behind me, her hips gliding stealthily through the mists. She looks out onto the world, her eyes not seeing what mine do, "What are you looking at?"

"The mist."

The red queen squints at the skyline of London. "I don't see any mist. It's clear as a bell."

I smile softly. Of course she doesn't see it. You see, Bombalurina is only on her third life, although she doesn't know it. I, on the other hand, know exactly which life I am on—number seven, to be exact. I remember all of my past lives—a rare gift and perhaps a flux of fate, but still an interesting talent to possess. I do not remember every detail of each life—sometimes I can not even recall how I died! But I do remember the important parts, the lessons learned over the years. One learns a lot from past mistakes—and I have over three thousand years of mistakes to learn from.


	2. Ancient Times

**Ancient Times: ****Lives One through Four.**

**_*Author's Note on the Text has been moved to the end of this chapter, with full references on each life. All names mentioned are indigenious to their time/location (i.e. Menefer is an actual Egyptian name, Jia is Chinese, etc.)*_**

**Life One: Egypt, circa 2000 B.C.**

My name was Menefer then. I was a temple cat—I remember looking out onto the desert winds of Egypt, watching as the boats moved lazily up and down the mighty Nile. I would spend my days lounging about the temple, allowing myself to be venerated as a reincarnation of Bast or Sekhmet or Mafdet, depending on which goddess the people considered me to be.

But at night, when the moon was clear and bright, I would slip into the shadows of night, climbing onto the temple roof or some tall statue to stare at the enchanting yellow orb. Nenet, another temple cat, would join me, and we would spend the evening in deep contemplation and discussion. That was how I first learned of Jellicles and their powers.

"Jellicle Cats come out tonight, Jellicle Cats, come one, come all," I sang softly to myself as I stared up at the pale moon.

"Where did you learn such a thing?" Nenet asked, her voice filled with an odd sense of urgency. I knew I must have done something wrong—Nenet never got excited or upset about anything.

"I-I-I've just always known it," I stammered, thrown off-guard by her sudden change in demeanor. I looked down at my paws, "I guess I just made it up."

"No, Menefer," Nenet said gravely. "It was instilled in you, before you were born. You, dear one, are a Jellicle."

"I don't even know what that means," I looked at her. "I mean, I sing about them, but I don't even know what a Jellicle is."

"A Jellicle is a very special kind of cat," Nenet explained. "You see, there are two types of cat: Jellicles and non-Jellicles. Non-Jellicles have nine lives, like every other cat; they go to Heaviside just like you and I…but there is something…_lacking_."

"What do you mean?" Now I was thoroughly confused.

"Jellicles have certain powers," Nenet said patiently. "Powers that even the average cat does not possess. Most are blessed with the gift of foresight, but just on the basis of premonition. Some are mystics—able to move things with their minds, to travel through space and time in the blink of an eye, able to see the future and to interpret dreams. Others are conjurors—workers of great magic. All Jellicles can bend and shift through time, uninhibited by the laws of Nature. We all are governed by two things—the moon and music. We are a special breed; our gifts are not to be taken lightly."

"So how do I tell a Jellicle apart from a non-Jellicle?" I asked.

"Usually, you can't," Nenet admitted with a smile. "That's the wonderful thing about Jellicles—we can blend in with the rest of the world. In some parts of the globe, Jellicles live in Tribes; others live in complete isolation, surrounded only by non-Jellicles. But there is a way to tell us apart."

"How?"

"Jellicles always have a certain…spark," Nenet's mouth curled into a wry grin. "Our eyes always seem to dance—there is always the twinkle of mischief, with the slightest hint of magic. That is how you can spot a Jellicle—through the eyes, the window to the soul."

I looked at Nenet's eyes. They certainly were bright. And they did seem to dance, as if they held some great secret behind their dark exterior.

"Come," Nenet turned away, moving silently across the rooftop. "Enough talk for tonight. Tomorrow, I will begin teaching you the Jellicle Law, and what it truly means to be a Jellicle."

I nodded, not fully understanding all that she had told me. Oh, what a happy night—the night I first discovered my true self. My Jellicle self.

~*~

It became a nightly ritual—we would sit atop the temple roof, and Nenet would teach me the Jellicle laws; she would tell me the history of the Jellicles, or teach me how to show courtesy and respect to those who were not Jellicles.

"Jellicle Cats have been around since the dawn of time," Nenet would say, her voice slow and deep, filled with the reflection of a thousand years.

I would nod, knowing that it must be true.

She would continue, almost wearily, "It is our duty to ensure that each new generation of Jellicles does not forsake the ideals set down by our ancestors. It is a heavy burden, but one well worth the pain."

I did not fully understand all that she taught me. It would be several lives before I understood the need to train the newborns—cats who are only in their first life. There are still some aspects of being a Jellicle that confound me to this day, but I suppose I am learning with every life.

Nenet was my only companion during those long years. She and I would spend the days watching the people bow before us, and spend the nights staring up at the endless stars above.

"How do you know so much, Nenet?" I asked one night, as we watched a lone vessel snake its way up the Nile.

"I have nine lives' worth of knowledge," she replied with a soft smile.

"Nine lives," I commented. "Must've seemed like an eternity."

"It seems quite short, actually," she gave another gentle smile. "Looking back, I think of all the things I have done, all the places I have been, all the things I have seen. And yet, it does not seem as if it has all been that long ago."

"I suppose I shall feel the same way, when I am in my ninth life," I admitted.

She gave a dry chuckle, "I'm sure you will. Use your time wisely, Menefer. If you learn nothing else, remember this: every life is sacred, every moment is precious. Do not waste it with sorrow and regret. Forget the past, forgive those who hurt you, and always, always, strive for a better tomorrow. Take every chance that is given you, and don't look back. Keep your eyes on the horizon."

I smiled softly at her words of wisdom. To this day, I still remember that advice, and try my best to follow it.

~*~

Nenet did not wake up the next morning. She passed quietly, while she slept. I am glad for that.

I cried so bitterly when she died—she was my only friend, my mother, my sister, my mentor. The people wept as well, shaving their eyebrows and wailing to the heavens over the loss of this great feline. I knew she would never return to see me—neither in this life or the next. Nenet was on her ninth life, and after a cat has spent its nine lives, it spends eternity with the Everlasting Cat.

I spent the rest of my days alone, and my nights as well. I lived in a waking dream, barely noticing the ebb and flow of seasons as years began to pass me by. I did not heed Nenet's advice—I seemed to live constantly in the past, rather than forgetting it. My eyes remained fixed behind me—at the point where Nenet left.

There were many more opportunities for me to live, for I survived for almost a decade after Nenet's death—but I let so many things pass me by, mainly because I had no fervor for life or any of its many delicacies. I was consumed in my grief—completely consumed, in an almost childish way. Unable to loosen my grasp on the past, and certainly unable to embrace the present, I spent the rest of my life in a waking dream. Like Nenet, I must have died in my sleep during my first life, for when I awoke, I was atop the temple as a strange fog rolled in.

I sat there for a very long time, watching the fog, with its hypnotic quality, as it continued to engulf the river valley, slowly seeping towards my temple. Somehow, I knew that the journey of my first life had ended. I was simply waiting at the crossroads, waiting for my next life to begin.

During this time, I was able to think back to my first life, and how I had wasted it so frivolously on a memory that would never return—even after Nenet had warned me against such actions! With amazing clarity, I suddenly remembered every chance that had been wasted, every opportunity that had drifted by without a second glance. I cried bitterly at the thought of my foolishness; I vowed never to do such a thing ever again.

Suddenly, a bright light shone before me, calling my secret name "K----, K----, arise!"

I looked towards the light in confusion. No one was able to guess a cat's real name—so how did this spirit know mine?

"K----, I am a messenger of the Everlasting Cat," the voice emanated from the light, though I could not see any distinct form. "I have come to take you to your next Jellicle life."

I nodded slowly, not sure of what to do next.

"Step out, K----."

I stepped forward, into the thin air hesitantly. I fell, but I did not hit the ground. I did not fall through air, but through time and space.

I awoke to my second life.

~*~

**Life Two: China, Han Dynasty, Circa 156 B.C.**

"Jia!" My mother called to me, craning her graceful neck as her sapphire eyes searched for me. I giggled to myself, crouching behind the potted plant. I waited until she walked past before pouncing on her dark tail.

My mother whirled around quickly, relief flooding her face, "Oh, Jia, I have been looking for you everywhere!"

"I was right here the whole time," I grimaced as Mother licked the top of my head roughly, smoothing my fur with her paw.

"Come along," she turned to go. "The Emperor is moving his court. We are expected to go with him. We leave within the hour."

"But…" I looked around the palace with sorrowed eyes. "This is our home."

"Our home is wherever the Emperor chooses," Mother answered softly, her blue eyes filled with concern. "Come, Jia. Your brothers and sisters are waiting."

I gave a small nod, following my mother's long and graceful strides down the marble halls of the great Emperor's palace. From every corner, dragons stared down at me, their emerald eyes glittering evilly in the late afternoon light. I quickened my pace, sidling up to my mother for protection.

"They're just statues," my mother said gently, as if she had read my mind.

"Yes, but they are houses for the spirits that they represent," I replied. "That is what Feng says."

Feng was another one of the Emperor's prized pets—a wise old cat who seemed to carry all the knowledge in the world upon his revered head.

Mother chuckled softly. "Feng likes to tell stories, little one."

"Is he coming with us?" I asked, the concern evident in my young voice.

"Yes," Mother smiled. "All of the royal pets will go. It is the Emperor's will."

I nodded, although I did not understand why we should be governed by mere mortals—silly humans with only one pathetic life!

Again, my mother seemed to read my mind, "It may seem hard to comprehend, Jia, but we are subject to the will of Man. That is how it has been for eons, and so shall it be."

"But, why?" I asked, desperately wishing it was not so.

"Because Man is a feeble, fragile thing," Mother answered softly. "Without our guidance and comfort, they often drift astray from their destiny. So we become pets—we become the keepers of their souls, the true discerner of their hearts. Sometimes they make decisions that do not particularly please us—"

"Like move to another palace," I supplied. Mother nodded and continued.

"But they still need us, so we acquiesce. How can we help them if we are not beside them?" Mother's blue eyes seemed to bore into my very soul. It suddenly seemed to make sense. In my first life, I did not truly have a human to call my own; I had not learned how much the human race relied upon the companionship of a cat.

~*~

Several years passed, and eventually, the Emperor died. His son took the throne. By then, I had become the chief pet of the Empress; she often referred to me as her "little pretty". I spent my days curled up on a pillow, often only a whisker's-length away from her right elbow, and my nights pacing the moonlight halls of the palace, dancing to the strains of a silent orchestra.

My Empress would often find me in the middle of my waltz as she, too, paced the hallowed halls. She would laugh—oh, she had such a pretty little laugh!—and say, "Jia, why are you dancing? There is no music!"

Then she would scoop me into her arms, humming some gay refrain or another, and we would twirl around the room. That is the fondest memory of my second life—the nights spent in my Empress' arms as we twirled about, her face smiling so happily down at mine.

My Empress had a very sad life—a life filled with royal intrigue and social clout, but a life without laughter or friendship. She spent her life in a glass prison, as a nightingale in a golden cage. Even now, I weep to think of how secluded her life of luxury truly was—she was beautiful beyond compare, privileged above all others, and lonelier than any other mortal soul. I take particular pride in knowing that in some small way, I brought joy to her usually downcast face.

Those are the only memories that remain of my second life—even my death remains shrouded in the forgotten corners of my mind. But I do know that somehow, I did die. And I awoke to my third life.

~*~

**Life Three: Celtic Britain (East Anglia), Circa 60 A.D.**

In my third life, I learned a valuable lesson about revenge—while revenge may seem tempting, even desirable, it only leads to more destruction, an awful downward spiral that spins out of control at an alarming rate.

I was quite a mouser in those days; I resided in the house of Prasutagus, king of the Iceni tribe. Rome ruled Britannia in those days; somehow Prasutagus had found a way to appease the Romans and keep his crown. But when he died, things became unbearable.

My favorite human of the house was Aoife, the eldest daughter of Prasutagus. She was beautiful, as far as humans go—hair as red as the setting sun, with eyes the spoke volumes of kindness. She also possessed a tenacity that earned her a place in her father's heart—upon his death, Prasutagus divided the kingdom amongst the Romans and his two daughters. Unfortunately, Rome did not agree with the terms and took the rest of land by force.

Prasutagus' wife went to the Romans and railed against the injustice, a fatal mistake indeed—as an act of retaliation, the Romans raped the daughters of Prasutagus and flogged his widow.

I remember Aoife holding me, crying softly into my fur. It was not long after the attack—I was filled with a certain misery for being unable to protect my human. That was the only time in my life that I wished I had been a Pollicle, so that I could truly avenge my mistress. But alas, Fate is not always so kind.

At that moment, the fallen queen entered the room. She strode forth confidently, her back ramrod straight, despite the huge red whelps that now covered her frame. She knelt beside her daughter, her face as solemn as the grave. In a voice low but filled with power, she spoke.

"Do not cry. A queen never cries. Upon your father's grave, I swear to avenge you and your sister—we will make those Roman dogs cower under our righteous fury. No one shall ever raise a hand against us again."

With that, the queen rose back to her full height, leaving the room and walking straight into the pages of history. Her name was Boudicca.

~*~

At first, revenge seemed like the natural course of action—how could one not react to such an atrocity? To sit passively by seemed like a greater sin than scourging the countryside, which is exactly what Boudicca did, with her daughters Aoife and Brites at her side. During those weeks, I saw many heinous crimes committed in the name of honor, a thousand different atrocities done under the guise of justice.

Towards the end, I began to wonder when exactly this carnage would end—the honor of two maidens had been taken, a queen had been disgraced, and land had been stolen, and in return, thousands of innocent Romans were barbarically murdered and whole cities were razed to the ground. Violence to solve violence, force being met with equal or greater force—how else would this bloody cycle end, but with even more violence and bloodshed?

One night, my human was in her tent, gathering her thoughts after another long day spent traveling the vast regions of Britannia. She was absentmindedly stroking my fur, as she usually did while deep in thought.

Her mother entered the tent in her usual dramatic fashion, throwing back her fur mantle with an air of authority that would make even the bravest man think twice about opposing her.

"Our scouts report that the Romans are pushing towards us—they'll be in the Midlands by tomorrow," Boudicca never was one to mince words. "We move at dawn—we will meet them with a fury that will shake the very foundations of the earth."

"Perhaps that is not wise," my human whispered softly, holding me closer and gently twirling my tail with her fingers. She looked down at the ground, too afraid to meet her mother's terrible gaze, "I mean, we have already caused so much destruction—"

"Have you gone mad?" Boudicca demanded, her eyes wide with shock. They held the slightest hint of hurt as well—I believe that every horrible act committed was done out of Boudicca's deep devotion for her children and her motherly instinct to harm those who had harmed her offspring, as well as an overwhelming urge to take back what was rightfully hers. "I will not rest until your inheritance—your birthright!—has been restored! And neither should you! You cannot falter now, not when Destiny is on our side! Look at our army—who can oppose us? What force of nature could conquer the mighty Iceni?"

This, I think, was Boudicca's fatal mistake. When the mortal try the strength of Time and Chance, then they are doomed to failure.

It seems that even Boudicca sensed this; from her bodice she produced a small vial attached to a chain. With a somber expression, she took her daughter's hand and pressed the vial in her palm, forcefully clasping her own hands around her daughter's.

"If Fate should choose to favor the Romans," Boudicca's voice was little more than a whisper, her eyes seemed to bore into her daughter's with an urgent sense of intensity. "We must be prepared."

My human stared at her mother in horror, "Mother—"

"We cannot accept defeat," Boudicca spoke quickly, her voice pitching oddly in hysteria. "We cannot be shamed like we were last time—I would rather die a thousand deaths than suffer such humiliation again. Aoife, do you understand me?"

My human nodded, her face almost ashen with fear. After her mother left the tent, I watched in concern as Aoife held up the vial, her hand shaking as she continued to stare at the small capsule that held her only escape from the brutal hands of the Roman soldiers. I prayed to all the cats in Heaviside that she would not have to take such drastic actions. Sadly, my prayers fell upon deaf ears.

~*~

"Brites! Aoife!" Boudicca practically leapt from her chariot, allowing her horses to charge wildly back into battle, their eyes rolling in terror at the awful sound of the Roman cavalry. Over the past few weeks, I had become acquainted with the two steeds who pulled the fallen queen's chariot; they were some of the hardiest and most daring horses I had ever met. The battle must have been very fierce to frighten those courageous equines.

I was not supposed to be here—I was supposed to be back with the other wagons, with the cooks and various other military entourages. But something inside of me was filled with a sudden urge to be near my human—I escaped my holding crate and somehow found Aoife, who had pulled away from the fray with her sister. I could tell by the hopeless expression on her face that the end was near.

Boudicca's expression was not one of hopelessness—her face was set in a mask of pure determination. She produced the small vial again, "We will not accept defeat."

Her daughters nodded, although their faces were filled with fear. I saw a single tear slip from the youngest daughter's eye.

With little ceremony, Boudicca raised the vial to her lips. Her daughters did likewise. There was an awful moment of complete silence as the three women waited for the poison to take effect.

The younger daughter, Brites, was the first to fall. She hit her knees, her eyes rolling back into her head as a thin, white line of foam lined her mouth. Then mighty Boudicca fell—she gave a sharp gasp, her face contorting in pain as the poison coursed through her veins. Aoife fell last, lying on her side as her eyes stared blankly ahead, as if transfixed by some hideous spell.

I stole from my hiding place, gently rubbing against my human's hand—already it was so cold! Her eyelids flickered; I think perhaps she realized I was near. The faintest of smiles appeared on her pale face; with one last shallow breath, her spirit left her body.

I lay next to my mistress for what seemed like an eternity. I had no thought other than how could I survive without her—what life awaited me here, in the Anglican wilderness? My soul felt a pang when I realized that it did not matter how I lived—I simply did not wish to live without my human.

I took a moment to stare bleakly at her mother—the woman who had wrought this tragedy, who had brought this unspeakable horror upon my mistress. I wondered if it was worth it—would anyone understand her pain? Would people sing her praises, or chastise her brash behavior? To what end had her bloody revenge served? What was accomplished by this? The answer to that is nothing. Revenge had brought nothing but her own death, and the death of her children—as well as the end of the line of Prasutagus.

I gently nudged my human's hand one last time, trying to find some comfort in her familiar touch. Sadly, it was not the same—for the soul was gone, as so was her love for me. My movement caused the vial to fall from her grasp, rolling onto the grass and twinkling merrily in the sunlight. How could such a bright and beautiful thing bring such darkness and death?

I took a deep breath as I contemplated my next move. I made my decision—I would not live without my mistress. Gingerly, I leaned over the vial—it had the very smell of death. With my nimble pink tongue, I licked up the remaining droplets of poison and waited for the light—the light and the voice, which would take me to my next life.

~*~

**Life Four: South France, 15th Century**

It seems that I did not learn enough of the darkness of Mankind in my third life—for in my fourth life, I learned of another kind of evil. I discovered the things that Man call Fear, Ignorance, and Hatred.

I actually do not remember much of my fourth life—only the events leading up to my death. During that time, I lived with an old widow, who I had known my whole life—she was my mother's human, and she became mine after my mother passed into Heaviside.

"There, there, Hecate," the kindly old lady reached down, patting my head affectionately. I mewed my approval, purring as she dutifully set down the saucer of cream.

"Why do you call the cat such a vile name?" The younger lady asked, wrinkling her nose in disdain.

"Hecate was a Greek goddess associated with childbirth," my mistress replied with a smile. "A good omen to have around the house."

"I thought Hecate was the goddess of witchcraft," the other woman responded snidely.

"Oh, that's just idle talk," my human replied softly, stroking my fur. "In the beginning, she was the patron of childbirth and the young."

The younger woman apparently did not approve of my human name, but she kept silent. I wasn't sure why she had come to live with us, but I think it was to help my mistress. My human helped mothers give birth to human kits, although I never understood why. Cats never needed help with such things—were humans truly that incompetent?

"I won't be back until tomorrow," my mistress spoke to me. She seemed to be one of the only humans who knew that cats were capable of understanding humans. "I have a baby to deliver—let's hope it's a quick one!"

With that, the two humans left. As usual, I occupied my time by dancing in the moonlight and playing with a thousand imaginary creatures, moving through the night on silent paws.

~*~

The sun rose and set again; my human finally returned home. She wore a weary expression—it also was tinged with sadness, a sign that something had gone wrong.

"A stillborn, Hecate," she sat down, slowly stroking my jet-black coat. "We lost the mother, too—and the babe, oh it was horribly disfigured. Hideous! In all my years, I have never seen such a thing."

Suddenly, there came a knock on the door. From the commotion outside, I could tell that it was a large group of humans.

"Where is the witch?" One cried.

"This is the third woman she has killed this year!" Yelled another.

"She took my wife—and cast a spell on the baby as well!" Bellowed another man, his voice hoarse with rage and tears.

"And she made the crops fail! She has placed a curse upon us!"

"Come out, Daughter of Satan!" A woman's voice called out. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought it sounded just like the young woman who helped my mistress.

"So it has come to this," my human said quietly, setting me back onto the floor and rising wearily to her feet. "Matilde warned me that this would happen—I did not think my own village would turn against me. But I suppose someone has to be blamed for it—and it is rather hard to hang Mother Nature."

I followed my human to the door. I was immediately concerned for her safety—surely she would not open the door to that rabble! But she did—my mistress was never one to fear.

"How can I help you?" She asked quietly. Already her face was lined with resignation.

"Look!" Someone cried out. "Her demonic familiar comes to greet us!"

This earned several gasps and murmurs of agreement. I looked around, trying to spy this devilish apparition. Suddenly I realized that they were referring to me. I looked to my mistress in fear and alarm; she merely looked down at me with a sad shake of her head.

"It is a cat, my friends," she said gently. "Not a minion of evil."

"A cat with a coat as black as the devil's soul!" Retorted one man.

The younger woman—the very one who helped my mistress deliver children!—stepped forward, "Not only that—it bears the name of Hecate, a demon for sure!"

Again, the crowd cried out in agreement.

"Oh, Hecate," my mistress said sadly, her kindly eyes filling with tears. "I'm afraid this shall be the end of us, my dear."

She was right—the crowd soon took her away, a large, black mass of angry men and pitchforks and fire. To me, they seemed more evil than all the creatures of hell. I was snatched up by the nape of my neck; although I fought valiantly, I was no match for a full grown man. I was thrown into a sack and carried a great distance. I did not know what fate awaited me, but I was certain that it was not a pleasant one.

By now, I was accustomed to dying—it isn't as bad as one expects. There sometimes is a momentary burst of pain, but it is fleeting, and nothing compared to the indescribable peace that follows. So I simply waited for the familiar feeling of Death's cold paw.

I was heaved, apparently from a bridge, into the icy river below. I do not remember even hearing a splash—my death was upon me before I could even fully realize it. I remember the cold water filling my lungs, rushing into my mouth and nose as I struggled to breath, fighting back the waves of blackness. Then all dissolved to a cold, blue light.

~*~

**Notes on the Text:**

**_Life One:_ Sekhmet was a warrior goddess of Upper Egypt, with a lion's head and woman's body, who was generally viewed as Protector of the Pharoah. Her Lower Egypt counterpart was Bast (also Ubasti, Baset, Bastet), who was also Protector of the Pharoah—as well as the Protector of the god Ra. When Upper and Lower Egypt combined, Sekhmet became the leading warrior goddess; Bast was demoted from being a lion to a domestic cat. Mafdet is a goddess from the First Dynasty, possessing the head of a cheetah and the body of woman. She oversaw legal justice (i.e. execution) and was often depicted as an avenger of wrongs, much like the Greek Furies.**

**Cats were held in high regard in Egyptian society—when a family's cat died, the family would mourn by shaving their eyebrows.**

**_Life Two:_ In 157 B.C. the Han Emperor Wen died, making his son Jing the new Emperor. Jing's first wife, Empress Bo, truly did lead a sad life—in 151, she was deposed due to the fact that she could not produce a male heir. She died four years later.**

**_Life Three:_ The spelling of Boudicca is often contested, the three main spellings include Boadicea, Budica, and Boudicca. Some believe that Boudicca was simply a nickname, since its meaning in the original Old Welsh is "Victorious" (which is where Queen Victoria drew her namesake—she was often referred to as Boudicca in the poetry of that time). ****The actual names of Boudicca's daughters have been lost in time; I simply chose two names of Celtic origin. Although I am no authority on names—perhaps these names were not even around during Boudicca's lifetime. So please, just bear with me on my lack of historical knowledge.**

**Also, Boudicca and her daughter's deaths are not recorded—the most common belief is that she died at a battle in West Midlands (the location is highly disputed as well!), and that she died by her own hand. If she had been captured by the Romans, the Roman historian Tacitus, who told the tale of the valiant queen, would have most likely recorded this. It is generally assumed that her daughters went into battle—and more than likely died—with their mother.**

**_Life Four_: The Greek goddess Hecate (Roman counterpart: Trivia) was a three-headed goddess, often seen as the patron of childbirth, the young, the crossroads, the moon, magic, and torches. Her symbol was the dog (often depicted as a symbol for motherhood). As her character evolved in mythology, she became more widely known as the goddess of the crossroads, a sort of welcome token to travelers. It wasn't until much later that she became known as the goddess of witchcraft—mainly because dogs became seen as demonic symbols, and torches weren't exactly welcome signs, either.**

**Most women accused of "witchcraft" during the 14th and 15th centuries were midwives, who were often blamed for complications in childbirth. Widows who associated with cats or goats were often singled out as "witches" and blamed for any number of ills, from failing crops to bad weather.**


	3. Modern Times

**Modern Times: Lives Five through Seven.**

**Life Five: Russia, 1916.**

Life Five was certainly one of my fondest lives. I lived in the Romanov Palace as a contented addition to the kitchen staff. Although the Romanov daughters would occasionally offer me an affectionate pat or take a few hours to play with one of my kittens as they were just learning to walk, for the most part I stayed away from the royal family.

Surprisingly, this was the one and only life in which I had kittens. Five litters, to be exact. And all of my offspring turned out to be the best mousers in the county. There is something to be said for raising up the next generation—I suddenly realized the burden Nenet must have felt while teaching me in my first life.

I would often take my kits for hunts—the palace grounds were filled with birds and crickets and a thousand other small animals perfect for honing my kittens' skills. I would teach them how to survive, how to help humans in daily life, and—most importantly—how to behave like a Jellicle.

"Jellicles wash behind their ears; Jellicles dry between their toes," I would remind them.

"Jellicle cats are merry and bright!" They would invariably chime in. "And pleasant to hear when we caterwaul!"

I would laugh at their antics—even after five litters, I never felt any more or any less love for any of my kits. Most of them went to other homes—a few lived in other palaces, and one of my sons even went as a gift to the archduchess of Austria! A few stayed with me—my daughter, Zenobia, and two of my sons, Catticus and Xander. Zenobia was from my first litter; Catticus was from my fourth, and Xander was from the second. It was nice to have the companionship of other cats—something I had not experienced since my second life, which was spent among my brothers and the various other pets of the Empress.

The four of us would often sit in the windowsill, staring out into the vast Russian landscape. I have lived many places, over various centuries and lives, but nothing will ever compare to the beauty of Russia. In my heart, it is and always will be my home. I have often heard that Heaviside is different places for different cats—if that is true, then my Heaviside will be in Russia, somewhere between the sea and the steppe. And I shall have wings, to fly across the space in between, all the while adoring my lovely Russia.

The summers were quite lovely, but our favorite time was winter, when the kitchen came to life with the smells and sights of the holidays; when tinsel was strung and the cook seemed to sing old carols tirelessly. We would stare out at the beautiful white world, warm and happy in our palace, safely tucked behind its gates of gold and stone.

Sadly, those gates, for all their beauty and splendor, were not as impervious as they seemed. One night, an angry mob—much like the one in my fourth life—bashed in the gates, spilling out into the courtyard and erupting into the palace like a petulant volcano.

"What is going on?" Zenobia cried, rising from sleep, her eyes darting about wildly in fear.

"They have come for the royal family!" Xander replied. "They want to avenge the death of Rasputin!"

"Oh, this is madness!" I had to yell to be heard over the noise that now filled the entire palace. If there was anything I had learned from Life Three, it was that revenge solved nothing—and again, I was right. Although it would be another two years before the actual deaths of the Romanov family, their blood did not bring Rasputin back to life. Instead, it became another incident in a long bloody line of catastrophes that would eventually drag the entire world into war.

"We've got to get out of here!" Catticus cried, the alarm evident in his voice. "They have torches—they will burn this place to the ground!"

We ran out into the dark, snowy night, uncertain of where we were going, but determined to escape the angry swarm that now invaded the palace. That night, we traveled as far as we could, finally collapsing in exhaustion, lost in the streets of St. Petersburg.

~*~

"Where are we?" Zenobia asked the next morning, rubbing her eyes groggily.

"I have no idea," I replied, glancing down the street for what seemed like the hundredth time. I had been awake for several hours—I had only slept for a little while; my nerves and my motherly instincts would not allow me to sleep for long. I had kept watch over my kits, praying that we would return home to find last night was only a horrible nightmare.

"Should we go back?" Catticus asked in uncertainty.

"No," Xander spoke with an air of authority. "I doubt there's anything to go back to."

"We should keep moving," I replied, willing my tired body to rise. "I don't think they'll come after us, but the whole city seems to have gone crazy—the farther we are from it, the better."

All of my kits nodded in agreement, following after me as I moved through the streets, eagerly looking for a way out. We finally found the train station—an amazing feat for four pampered house cats who had never left the palace grounds in their entire lives. We took the train to a small village and set out to begin new lives.

~*~

We stayed together for several months, living off the garbage and the occasionally kindness of strangers. Then one day, Catticus did not return. To this day, I do not know what happened to him.

It was in those squalid village streets that Zenobia gave birth to her first litter of kittens—all but one died from the cold. The survivor was a little queen, whom we named Tatiana, in honor of the Romanov daughter who doted on us.

Not long after Tatiana's birth, Zenobia and her kit were taken in by humans. As much as it pained me to part with my firstborn, I knew it was for the best. She tried to convince Xander and me to join her, but we both knew that her humans were a poor family, and two more mouths to feed would be too much of an imposition.

Xander and I took to the streets once more. One day, while rummaging through the garbage, I found a newspaper clipping—one about the royal family. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to think back to my old home. I wondered what happened to the cook—that large, boisterous woman who sang every song out of tune whilst stirring the soup, her cherry cheeks sparkling with laughter. And Alexandra—my beautiful tsarina!—what had become of her? And the dogs, who were quite well-mannered for Pollicles, who treated us in a friendly manner, often begging us to play—what fate awaited them?

I could not answer those questions—moreover, I did not wish to answer them. I shuddered as I remembered that night—my last night in the palace. Whatever their fates, I am sure it was not a pleasant one.

That night, I dreamt for the first time since leaving the palace. I dreamt of Christmas. I never awoke from that dream.

~*~

**Life Six: England, mid 1930's.**

Life Six came relatively quickly—usually I had to wait centuries before entering a new life. This time it was only a matter of years. Life Six was also by far the most peaceful—and, in a way, the most productive. I was still a small kit, barely weaned from my mother's milk, when I was taken into the care of a gentleman named T.S. Eliot. I was not his first feline; there were many of us in the house. I was christened Noilly Prat and eagerly joined the ranks of the Eliot felines.

One day, my human's god-daughter came to visit us. I am a firm believer that human kittens are intellectually superior to their elders; an odd reverse in comparison to most animals, who grow wiser with age. But I suppose that's because humans tend to take on that terribly boring idea called Logic—they use it to explain away all the wonderfully magical things of this world. A man and his Logic can singlehandedly "think away" all the mysteries of time, but they leave no room for the truth—some things cannot be explained. Humans call it "the paranormal". Jellicles know it's simply how the world truly operates. And it is called Magic.

This precocious young human was attempting to carry on a conversation with Eliot—she pointed to me and said, "Jellicle cat."

Eliot assumed that she had merely mispronounced the words, "Dear little cat."

_No, no, my good sir. She simply knows a Jellicle when she sees one._

Unfortunately, Eliot was not as in-tune with my feline voice as I had hoped; he and his damned Logic waved away the entire event. I couldn't believe I had been chosen by such a daft being.

"He almost had it," George Pushdragon, another one of the cats, shook his head sadly. "For once in my life, I find a human who has actually heard of a Jellicle, and everyone thinks she can't speak properly!"

I gave an angry sigh of agreement. This truly was awful.

But apparently, our human was much brighter than we gave him credit for. Two months later, I found him hunched over his writing desk, pen scribbling furiously across the page. I lightly leapt onto the desk, my curious nature getting the better of me.

It took a moment for me to piece together the words—human is hard to read, especially when it is written so hurriedly—_Jellicle Cat!_ He was writing about Jellicle Cats!

I craned my neck, straining to make out the words: _Jellicle Cats come out tonight, Jellicle Cats come one, come all!_

I smiled to myself. That was the very first song I had learned to sing—the song of my first life, the song of the Jellicle.

Eliot took a moment to smile at me, rubbing my back and scratching my chin affectionately. "I see you approve of my work, old girl."

I purred in agreement. I most certainly did approve—finally, someone was revealing the centuries old secret, the true nature of the feline race!

From that day on, I would sit at the desk, napping in the sun and occasionally responding lazily to Eliot's many questions about Jellicle life. Sometimes I told him Jellicle Secrets; sometimes I merely stared stonily back at him, letting him know that he had dug too deep or that the answer was a secret that could never be unleashed. He seemed to understand the need for certain secrets to remain a mystery; he generally acquiesced to my silent stares of disapproval.

~*~

A few years later, my human tied a simple string around a stack of white, neatly typed sheets—a sure sign that his work was ready to go to printing. Due to my lack of assistance on certain Jellicle matters, a few of his poems were left unfinished, tucked away in his desk drawer. But no matter—the ones he had chosen to print were exceptional, and would prove useful tools for educating humans about the nature of the Jellicle.

Perhaps since it was my most recent past life, I still retain many memories from it. I remember days spent in the rare-but-welcome English sunshine, warming myself on the front walk along with the other feline residents. I recall lazy summer days spent in the garden, or at the nearby pond, and balmy nights spent dancing with George Pushdragon under the Jellicle Moon, whilst our human would watch with a bemused expression, smoking his pipe as his eyes followed each intricate step of our dance.

Even now, I can still hear the crickets chirping a symphony as the fireflies danced about us like petals from a golden blossom. Those were the moments of happiness.

~*~

**Life Seven: London, Present Day.**

This was the only life that I spent as a purebred. I always found it amusing that I became an Abyssinian—as if drawing on my ancient roots.

This was the first time that I truly remembered all of my past lives—perhaps I did before, but never had they seemed so clear, so lucent, as if it had all happened yesterday.

I was born to a breeder; I was part of my mother's eighth litter—by that time, she had learned to become detached from her offspring, to save herself from the inevitable pain of losing them. As soon as I could eat solid food, I was moved to a pet shop. After a few short weeks, I was adopted into a new family—a young couple who opted to have cats instead of children.

"You'll like it here," the female human cooed, peering into the cage that had transported me from the pet shop. She set the crate down, opening the gate. I gingerly stepped out, mewing my complaints and looking around in a bewildered fashion.

I instantly spotted a large grey cat in the window sill. By the expression on her face, I could tell that she did not appreciate my arrival.

"Hello!" I bounded up to greet her with my usual kittenish enthusiasm. Despite her obvious dislike for me, I was determined to make friends.

"Hello," she replied coolly, her yellow eyes never leaving mine. At the time, I thought she hated me—but in reality, her reserve was part of her personality. Little did I know, she was sizing me up. Like Nenet, she knew how to spot a Jellicle.

"What's your name?" I asked sweetly, still undeterred by her lack of warmth.

"My human name is not worth mentioning," she sniffed. "But my real name is Teathrice."

"What a lovely name," I breathed. She smiled for the first time.

"And what is your name, little one?"

"Cassandra," I answered.

"Cassandra," she repeated softly. Then her intense gaze fixed upon me once more, "Cassandra, do you know what a Jellicle cat is?"

"Oh, yes," I nodded emphatically. "I learned that in my first life!"

"Your first life?" she looked at me strangely. A beat passed. She spoke again, this time her tone guarded and slow, "And how many lives have you had?"

"This is my seventh," I smiled. "What about you? What life are you on?"

"I don't know," she answered softly, staring at me as if I had grown a second head. "No cat ever knows how many lives they have left—their memory is erased with each passing."

"I guess they must've skipped me," I shrugged, still grinning.

"Who are _they_, exactly?" Teathrice asked.

"Well, I've never actually seen them," I admitted. "But there's always a voice—a voice that sounds like a hundred voices—that calls me to the next world."

"I see," Teathrice said quietly. Then she murmured, almost to herself, "A rare gift, indeed—surely a mystic."

"A what?" My ears perked up.

"My dear, I believe you are what we would call a mystic—a Jellicle with very special abilities," Teathrice looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. "Tell me, what else can you do? Can you read thoughts, or move things with your mind? Can you walk through walls or stop the moon in orbit?"

"No, nothing like that!" I laughed. "Nobody can do that—it's impossible!"

"Oh, darling, it's possible," Teathrice replied gravely. "And there are cats in this very city who can do all those things—well, except for stopping the moon. Only a very special Jellicle is able to do such a thing."

"What do you mean?" I was confused. I thought all Jellicles were special.

Teathrice seemed to read my mind, "Once every generation, a Jellicle is born with certain powers—greater than all the powers of earth combined—but they only discover their powers in times of need. Some go their entire lives without ever knowing of their gift, simply because it is not needed! But in times of danger, the power within rises, and that Jellicle—whomever he or she may be—must save the entire Tribe."

I nodded, not fully understanding her words. Sadly, I would not live to see that special Jellicle—although one would appear not long after my death.

~*~

Over the next few weeks, Teathrice and I discussed many things—my acceptance into the Tribe, how to use my gift for good, and things of that nature. The years passed, and we fell into a contented acquaintance. I don't think our relationship could have ever been classified as friends, for we only spent time together at our human house—once we entered the Junkyard, we went our separate ways.

It was in the yard that I met Alonzo—sweet, handsome, dependable Alonzo. If I had ever met a tom that I cared more about, then I certainly didn't remember—never, in any of my previous lives had I cared so deeply about a cat. Sadly, that was my problem—I never really knew how to show my feelings, how to prove my love to Alonzo. I knew he cared; I think, in some small way, he knew that I returned his love, but it wasn't enough.

We fought often—not that it worried me; I always knew we'd get back together eventually. But one day, Alonzo finally had enough of my emotional inability. We ended things, and ever since, there has been a hole in my heart—I never thought I'd feel this way over any cat, much less Alonzo, but life always has a way of taking you by complete surprise.

That was during the dark times—the days when Munkustrap ruled the Jellicle Tribe. As if separation from Alonzo wasn't enough, my closest ally, Bombalurina, disappeared. But Fate was kinder this time—after the loss of two great friendships, I was given a third, this time in the form of Coricopat. Like me, Corico was considered a mystic, but unlike me, he wasn't generally accepted into the Tribe.

I never really understood why—sure, he was a tad quiet, and had a disconcerting way of staring directly into your soul, but all in all he was a decent cat. I think his reputation was tinged by the fact that he was the twin to Tantomile, who was a certifiable freak. Either way, over the months we developed an odd friendship, one that often saved me from the darkest of thoughts.

But it was not enough to keep the feelings of restlessness from my chest. Oh, how I longed for freedom! One day, Bombalurina returned, and I was given the opportunity to escape. So I left the yard and never looked back. My one regret is that when I left the Tribe, I was at-odds with Coricopat. I had hoped to work things out before I left, but sadly it wasn't so. I always assumed that once this bloody war was over, I would have the chance to set things right with the black and white tom. Again, I was mistaken.

One would think that the next few months, which I spent as a rebel with a price on my head, would have been the most stressful, fearful days of my life. In all honesty, they were the best moments of my seventh life—during those months, I developed a bond with the other rebels, a connection that Death itself could not sever. Despite the emotional barrenness that accompanied most of my seventh life, I became quite close to those cats. I grew to admire the Rum Tum Tugger—once a selfish cad, now a selfless, fearless leader. My friendship with Bombalurina only deepened; my respect for Mungojerrie and Rumpleteaser blossomed, and I even have to admit that I became fond of the three young ones—precocious Electra, exuberant Pouncival, and soulful Mistoffelees.

Which is why I am so bothered by the fact that now, as I sit upon this rooftop, I cannot remember my own demise. What killed me? How did I die, while still in the prime of my life?

~*~

**Notes on the Text**

**_Life Five:_ Although the assassination of Rasputin was not the only reason for the Revolt of 1916, it is generally considered a major factor. One can assume that four cats who were up-to-date on palace gossip (especially since they spent their time with the kitchen staff) would know of Rasputin's death—and consider it a reason for the revolt.**

**_Life Six_: The incident of Eliot's god-daughter naming Jellicle Cats is widely believed to be true—she apparently had a speech impediment, mispronouncing "dear little cat" (Jellicle Cat) and "poor little dog" (Pollicle Dog) to inspire the poems and the musical that we all know and love today. ****And Eliot is recorded as having seven cats, to be exact (although I do not know if they all lived at the same time; I took artistic license by placing several of them in the same time frame). Their names are as follows: Noilly Prat, Pattipaws (or Pettipaws), Jellyorum, Wiscus, Mirza Murad Alibeg, George Pushdragon, and Tantomile.**

**_Life Seven_: The "dark times" leading up to Cassandra's death are chronicled in The Dark Side Series.**


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Wait, I see it," Bombalurina leans forward, craning her neck towards the river. "Look! There's a thick fog rolling in."

I nod quietly, knowing what this must mean. I turn to Bombalurina, "How did you find this place?"

Bombalurina laughs at me now, her pretty voice shooting through the gloom, "Cass, darling, I live here. This is where we stay—with the others. I come up on the roof every morning, to think."

"Really?" For some reason, I don't remember this. Odd.

The red queen rubs her forehead in slight aggravation, "I had the most terrible dream last night. I dreamed we were fighting and…and I died."

"Bombie," I say quietly, trying not to scare her. "That was no dream. That was your life."

She laughs at this, not knowing how else to respond, and gives me a confused look. Suddenly, she spies Tugger and Alonzo in the street below, "Look, Cass, there are the toms! Yoo-hoo, Alonzo! Tugger, darling, we're up here!"

They do not respond. Bombie crosses her arms with a pretty little pout. She is not used to being ignored, "What's wrong with them?"

"They can't hear us."

"Of course they can," Bombie retorts. "I've called from this rooftop hundreds of times."

"Yes," I smile softly. "But they cannot hear us now."

An odd look crosses her face; she turns slowly, taking in the rooftop as if seeing it for the first time. "Wait…this is the rooftop of the first loft—the one that burnt down. How did—"

Suddenly, the realization hits her. Flashes from her nightmare (which was actually her life and probably her death) hit her; she glances down at her chest, "But—my wounds have healed…how?"

"You are no longer in your earthly body," I tell her.

She looks around with a renewed sense of interest, "So this is Heaviside Layer?"

"Yes and no," I smile. I explain patiently, "Heaviside is not a place, but a state of mind. We will wait here until the Everlasting Cat sends a messenger to take us to our new life."

"How long will that be?" she asks nervously.

I shrug, "Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes centuries."

"So…I'll never see Demeter again?" Her voice is filled with tears. She slowly thinks of the ones she loves, "I'll never see Jemima grow up, or Teaser have kittens. I'll never touch Tugger again…or see Pouncival. And Misto—what about my son? I'll never see him again, will I?"

Those sad brown eyes turn to me, pleading for me to prove her wrong, to say it's all a joke, to make it all disappear. Sadly, I cannot. I wrap my tail around her comfortingly. "Perhaps, in another life. But you won't remember any of this. I know it sounds scary right now, but really it is a good thing. The pain won't last forever."

"But how do you remember all your past lives?" She looks to me with bewildered eyes.

I laugh, "I have no idea. I didn't always, but somehow this time around I did. It was as if they forgot to wipe my slate clean."

"You know," Bombie says in a small voice. "Looking back, I don't regret any of things I did. I only regret the things I didn't do."

Her gaze falls to Tugger once more; tears begin to pool in her dark brown orbs. She truly is a heartbreaking sight to behold.

"I'll never be able to tell Tugger how I truly feel," Bombalurina looks down.

"No," I offer a sad smile. I look to Alonzo and feel the same regret—but as I learned in my first life, looking back does nothing to help the future. So I set my feelings aside and stare down at the unmoving gray pavement, patiently waiting for the light and the voice that seems at once so familiar and yet so strange.

"So we wait," she takes a deep breath, steadying herself and stopping her tears.

"Yes." I take a deep breath, turning my face towards sunrise and the oncoming fog. "We wait."

_~Le Fin_

**Final note: In "The Red Queen", Bombalurina is actually mentioned as being in her seventh life as well—but I thought it would be a little too odd to have both queens die simultaneously in their seventh life, so I made Bomba a bit "younger". Those of you who are consistency nuts will just have to forgive me on that one! And the cause and full account of Cass and Bomba's deaths is given in the final chapter of "The Reckoning".**


End file.
